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Twenty-four years. That’s all the time I’d been given in this cursed existence. Despite how hard, and miserable, and hot, and frustrating it had all proven to be, I’d bizarrely hoped for more of it.
“Well, let’s start at the beginning, then. The quicksilver pools are pathways that connect different realms. I’m sure you’ve figured as much.”
Kingfisher. He emerged from the cloud of black smoke like a night terror stepping through the shadowy gates of hell.
Fisher laughed. Really laughed. The sound was rich and deep, and made something inside me sit up straight. When I’d picked up a pitcher at the Winter Palace and filled a glass for myself for the first time, I’d thought the sound of that rushing, free water would be my favorite sound until the day I died. I was wrong. The sound of Fisher’s genuine laughter was rarer than water had ever been back in Zilvaren; it almost brought tears to my eyes to hear it.
There it was again: the smell of fresh, flaky pastry and rich butter, but this time it was blended with the subtlest hint of sugar. And coffee. It was the idea of coffee that had me climbing out of bed in the end. Stiff and a little dizzy, I wrapped myself in a sheet and went to find the source of the smell.
“Don’t you dare die on my watch, Saeris Fane! Fisher will never forgive me if his sole reason for living is torn to pieces on her first fucking battlefield.”
It was both beautiful and terrifying to watch. Kingfisher turned killing into an art form.
